


A Shadow of Cloud

by primeideal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Future Character Death, Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Quidditch, Siblings, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a summer when Lorcan Scamander, and so many others who might win fame, rode with the Harriers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shadow of Cloud

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with this prompt and wanted to take it in every direction at once; this is what happened. Many thanks to n for betaing on short notice, and the mods for an extension.

My brother Lysander was fifteen years old when he discovered two important things about himself; he was negative for the MS-03 gene, and he hated watching professional Quidditch.

He hadn't minded following the Quidditch standings every once in a while. Lysander would hear a team get on a hot streak, conclude they were overrated and overdue to slump again, and bet tiny sums of money against them with his pen-friends by owl. He lost more often than he won, muttered under his breath, and tried again.

Personally, I never really trusted myself with a Knut or whatever the British currency was. I had once preferred to read longer-form articles about the ongoings of the Holyhead Harpies or the Montrose Magpies—when I was just starting to read English, I'd giggle over the witticisms poking fun at celebrity wizards and witches. Sometimes I fancied that I'd be _Prophet Correspondent Ginny Potter_ when I grew up. It was my Grandpa Xenophilius who sat me down and told me sternly that first off, Madam Potter was a nice young witch but the ontological nature of the universe prevented me from duplicating her. Second of all, the world was not kind to young writers with a penchant for speaking the truth, and the rear ends I'd have to kiss and the beliefs I'd have to downplay weren't worth it, and a strapping young wizard should find himself a respectable profession.

None of this put me off enjoying the Gorodok Gargoyles hosting some Canadian visitors for a long afternoon, but Lysander had an entire litany of complaints. It was a farce of the Lithuanian Ministry to have not processed our passports and let us go home (probably true, but I wasn't complaining since we'd found such a fun way to spend the afternoon). The Snitch's value was disproportionate to goalscoring (debatable). Having all the scores be multiples of ten was hopelessly inefficient (Lysander may have had a point on this one). The uniforms were very boring and mundane; we couldn't even see the Canadian witches'—“Lysander!” Father interrupted. (They're supposed to be _uniform_ , and it wasn't worth getting worked up about.) The food available for purchase was unappetizing (he was not, as a rule, particularly partial to Lithuanian cuisine).

And, of course, at the moment the Gargoyles' Seeker came up with the Snitch, Lysander's view was blocked because the fans in front of him had stood up to let some passersby go to the restroom (technically they _could_ have Apparated like adept witches, but trying to coordinate one's arrival _into_ the portable stalls was always a wager). Never mind the fact that he was engrossed in craning his head to see an impressive Beater maneuver at the other end of the field. It was, he declared, an outrage, and that was that.

The upside for him was that the match had dragged on for several hours, by which time the afternoon heat had faded away, and we were spared another afternoon of walking around looking for overpriced souvenirs. The next day, a sheepish bureaucrat assured us that everything had been processed and our Portkey was good to go. We clasped hands to the garden spade in question, and found ourselves back at the Feuerstelle. The house was, as always when we returned from our travels, uncluttered—none of Father's experiments were taking up space on the floor, nor were there notecards or parchments strewn across the tables. But there was a small pile of owl correspondence that had been ordered to go directly to the house rather than track us down. Bills, notifications about by-elections, and buried under these, Lysander's genetic tests.

It took him a while to make sense of them. They'd been sent all the way from St. Mungo's in London, and the formatting of the tests was very shoddy then. Wizards were only just beginning to replicate the Muggle technology that allowed people to study specific hereditary patterns; something like “susceptibility to Dragon Pox” was too vague to link to any gene, and “magical ability” wasn't legal to screen for in most countries due to all kinds of messy issues. But a single rare wizarding disease that ran in families could be pinned down. Even manuscripts from hundreds of years ago recorded the details—the way spasms could make an afflicted wizard seize up while spellcasting, and then came more and more often until even without a wand they were gripped by intractable bouts of pain—that we had seen all too much of in Mother.

I was deep in my Post-Divination phase at the time and didn't bother with the testing. There was no cure for MS-03, no point in knowing, and the act of looking into my own future seemed like it could be tempting fate at worst. I congratulated Lysander on the negative results, asked if we were going out to dinner to celebrate, and braced myself as he rolled his eyes. After weeks' worth of Lithuanian food, he was more than ready to cook for _himself_.

* * *

It was the better part of a decade later when I got ready to fly to catch a Portkey to Thaftrin Moor. Before I could take my Cleansweep Twenty out in public, of course, I needed to cast a Disillusionment Charm. That usually wasn't an issue, because it was a hard spell to mess up. As long as I checked myself in the mirror to make sure nothing was showing, I was good to go. Compared to Apparition, which could have the uncomfortable side effect of me showing up in an eyebrowless state, it was well worth the early start I needed. I was too nervous to gulp down much more than some dry cereal, anyway. And best of all, I got to fly.

A voyeur above the streets of Muggle Essen, I watched cars weave and pivot below me, trains sliding down tracks like Gobstones rolling to a stop. I found myself wishing for a ball or something simple to toss up and down, gliding one-handed over the city, but there was no such diversion, and I had to spiral through more creative flight paths to keep myself busy. At last, I flew low to the ground as Dortmund came into view below me, craning with one hand to extricate a map from my robes. Lysander would have called it dull, too Muggle and unmoving. I found it useful, especially for tourists in a pinch and willing to pay. The view from the air was the only one that mattered.

I'd circled a park, and found a place to touch down behind a stand of trees. Unsure whether to try and tuck my broom under my robes or play janitor if accosted, I decided to leave it out, keeping my head down as I nervously strolled up to a pavilion, mounting its steps two at a time.

“Hullo!” grinned a tall, blonde witch, a Muggle football at her feet. “11:30 to Thaftrin?”

“That'd be me,” I smiled. “Are we waiting on anyone else?”

“I hope not.” I must have reacted, because she went on, “less competition for the rest of us, eh?”

“Right, right.”

But a few minutes before the Portkey was set to run, another man came up, running at what passed for top speed. He gave irritated glares at both of us, and kicked at the football experimentally before the woman snagged it.

“If you're ready,” she said, consulting a simple wristwatch. We gathered around, reaching out to the football, and moments later that familiar lurch behind my navel yanked us away.

Thaftrin Moor was full of wizards and witches milling around. I wasn't sure who was there to try out and who was just an onlooker. A wizard who looked old enough to be someone's grandfather signed me in with a dry inkwell, but assured me that my scratchy signature would be legible.

I wanted to glide around on my broom some more, but thought better of it once I noticed how insufferable the loop-de-loops performed by a short wizard in a ponytail were becoming. So instead, I waited until a piercing whistle split the air. There was Liese Specht herself, an equipment box tucked underneath her arm.

“Right, lasses, lads, if we're ready?” the manager called. Her voice must have been amplified somehow, to hear over the ruckus, yet we all fell silent listening to her speak. Of course we were ready. “I'll be passing this box around. Affix one of these on the end of your broom, then line up. We'll be doing a dozen laps around the pitch. You'll go around once clockwise, then immediately turn and go counterclockwise. Once you've done two, climb up to a higher altitude, out of the way of oncoming traffic, and so on. After that, we'll split you up by the position you're trying out for, and go to work.”

Nervous giggles, as if people found it impossible to believe this could really be work. I waited my turn for the box to come around; a woman with dark hair and a long blue robe had dropped it and was fumbling to retrieve one of the items before rushing to pass it off. As it made its way closer, I saw that they were tiny hourglasses with an attached strap—charmed, probably, to measure our movements in flight.

The wizard next to me tied his on and immediately began poking it with his wand. I took the box from him and simply attached mine, passing it on. A few minutes later, we were ready to begin. Specht cast something that must have activated the hourglasses, and we took off.

The hardest part of the first several laps was the logjam. I was making my way among dozens of fliers in hot, sweaty robes, desperate to break forward not only to prove myself but also to have some breathing room. Then came the turnaround, and I had to duck a little lower than before so as not to be hit by the oncoming crowd—I smiled to myself, knowing I was one of the first to make it that far, but also knowing I had a lot of clumsier fliers to avoid.

Climbing past them for the second time around was more of a danger. I veered sharply upward to avoid trailing bristles behind me, ducking as I dodged another passing hourglass, and flattened out as I continued around. Gradually, my flight path began to clear out. It was a warm, bright day, and there were very few bleachers erected, so little on the moor could distract me. I looped seven, eight times, around the tenth gulping back the fear that I'd lost count. I was not the first, after all; surely one of the cluster in front of me would know when we were done.

And sure enough, after the requisite laps were complete, they broke into a dive. I followed with a grin, barely catching myself in time to hover above the ground.

Specht greeted us with nods. “If you'll cluster by position...” She pointed the Chasers to the back left area, and I glided over there. The woman in blue who had dropped the box earlier had finished with one of the best times. I was glad to see her make her way to the Seekers' corner, knowing I wouldn't have to compete against her directly.

Us would-be Chasers spent the afternoon throwing balls around in every direction. Across the field, as we spaced ourselves further and further apart. Up and down. With Bludgers flying between us. With the Seekers racing between us, the blue-robed woman in a no-handed dive as I looped past two other witches.

Specht barely spoke to us, except to accost the man I'd seen fiddling with his hourglass. Apparently, he'd tampered with it, because she yelled something at him and he angrily hurled it to the ground, departing practice early. The rest of us stuck around; one of the Keepers started taking more and more frequent water breaks, but we all pushed through.

“All right,” she said, “thank you all for coming out, it looks like another—talented—cohort, you'll be hearing from us soon. Please leave your timers back in the box, and put your initials on them, as you leave. Every year we need to make holistic judgments about the long-term future of the team. If it doesn't work out, you're welcome to try again. The next open tryouts will be for Trier.”

As far as I could tell, we departed as we had come—some Apparating, the rest of us waiting for return Portkeys. Nobody had instantly befriended someone else and clung to them on the way back. At least then, we were all still opponents, and friendship was another pipe dream.

* * *

I've read a lot of mail, and gotten proficient enough at reading between the lines when wording is vague. But before I could do that with the letter from Heidelberg, I took a moment to run my fingers over the seal.

The Harriers. Fiercer than a dragon, and twice as clever. There were other teams in Germany, of course, almost a league's worth. Plenty more in Britain, in Europe, in the world. It wasn't like I had a desire to stay close to home for its own sake—dream too provincial, and Lysander's cosmopolitan ridicule would be the death of me—nor had I grown up cheering for them or practicing on a school team. But so few clubs commanded respect like they did, the world over. So few wizarding _institutions_ did, really, for grown adults like us. Even playing a children's game, the seal was something to be respected.

I pulled it off reverently, bracing myself for whatever came. Perhaps they might have cut me, then and there, and who's to say what would have happened next. Instead, a tidy script from handwriting too neat to be Specht's—she'd been a player in her day, signing illegible autographs like the best of them.

_...many talented athletes...difficult decisions...unfortunately, do not consider...suitable for the position of Chaser..._

I held the paper in my hands, acutely conscious of how it and I stayed in place. I kept reading.

_...impressive displays of skill and strength...recommend training as a Beater...reserve team practices over the summer...recruiting from the candidates..._

It was days like those I wished I had an owl of my own. I could rent one if I needed to send mail, or wait for officious birds to deliver something to me and impatiently await a response, but the occasion seemed to demand a familiar to proclaim _Here I am, the Lorcan Scamander, deigning to respond to you._ At least, as I scribbled my enthusiastic reply, I thought so.

* * *

I woke up to the sound of Lysander advising me to wear short-sleeved robes. In most circumstances this would have been a rather personal incursion even by twins' standards, but it was a Friday, and on Fridays, Lysander gave meteorology reports on the wizarding wireless. He had always been fascinated by the nonliving parts of the natural world, and studied everything from Astronomy to Charms. Researching magical methods of predicting or modifying the weather was the natural next step, and as far as I could tell, he loved it. I envied his focus, sometimes, but not once growing up had I expected to take as many exams as him.

Despite the heat of the day, I cared far more about the robes I was fitting for than those I wore on the way to check in. Once there, I stripped down to my simple Muggle clothes, while a tape measure flitted around and took my not-so-vital statistics.

“How's Gruenberg's robe coming?” I heard someone call in a back room.

“It'll be done on time,” said the man who was scribbling things down in front of me, “that's all that matters.”

“Waste of effort if you ask me.”

“Gruenberg a no-hope?” I asked.

The man shrugged, summoning the tape measure back, and I ducked as it zoomed over my shoulder. “That's what you're here to find out, I suppose. Big bloke, eh? Beater?”

“That's the idea,” I shrugged.

“Good for you.”

The woman in the back paced out, giving me a once-over. “They get bigger every year.”

“Bigger?” both of us blurted.

“Or we're shrinking,” she said irritably.

The man laughed. “You stay off those performance-enhancing spells, all right?”

“Yessir,” I smirked, before taking off again.

“...so we get to pick up our robes at the first practice, right?” I explained to Lysander that evening. “And Specht has sent us a bunch of exercises to try, to keep in shape like the first squad. Her wife's a Muggle dietician, you know, so she has a bunch of recommendations too, you don't even need to cast anything—what?”

“What what?” he echoed.

“What, are you busy?”

“No!” he blushed. “No, go ahead...”

“Lysander, you're a terrible liar, come on.”

“I'm just glad you're so excited.”

It did take some effort to get him to care about Quidditch, I supposed—he had no more control over us flitting through the air than I did about his own professional life—but that didn't stop him from dodging the subject. If I didn't get to the point, he'd probably start lapsing into English as if to dodge his tone of voice. “Right, then, where do you have to be?”

“Er—nowhere.”

“Stephanie?”

“Nooo,” he blurted, and for once his evasiveness felt genuine. Of course I'd been behind the times. As far as I knew, their breakup had less to do with the fact that she was a Muggle and more because her thoughts on the Schengen agreement were a bit too reactionary for his taste.

“Sorry, sorry. Elsa.”

“Yeah, no, she can wait—she was helping her roommate with some—”

“Lysander,” I laughed, “go have fun. We'll catch up later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, not quite stricken but not committed. “If...no. Lorcan?”

“Eh?”

“Send me owls. I—want to hear about practice, everyone you meet, but—just in case something comes up, so I can read them on my own time.”

“Of course!”

“Brilliant.”

“Give Elsa my best.”

His grin suggested he'd do just that, and with an echoing snap, he'd Apparated away.

* * *

_Dear Lysander,_

_Perhaps it's a worn truism by now that great warriors define themselves by what they do battle against. Mother took to arms to defend her school from tyrants. Grindelwald considered himself a sentinel against those he deemed inferior and unworthy of leadership. And in times when the reputation of international Quidditch is open to many possibilities, one brave voice takes issue with what they perceive as overrated hype. One defender, as it were, against the noise. In our day and age, we have been left with those such as Cumhur Brandt to toil for us, and his favorite target is—_

“—cursed _England_.”

Making what was about to be my first mistake of practice, I sized up the enormous Keeper, and decided to engage him in conversation. “What about it?”

“Think they invented the game, and—”

“They did invent the game,” pointed out Ortrun Vogelsong, passing me a Beater's bat.

“—that gives them an excuse to not pay attention to tactics.”

“That's brilliant, innit?” asked Sigi Pfeffer, a Chaser. “So they don't catch up to us, and then we beat 'em at World Cup time.”

“Or the European Cup,” said Ortrun.

“Or that.”

“It's just a farce!” Cumhur declared. “Turn on the wireless, it's just them yapping about some sentimental no-hopes like Chudley.”

Hoping Lysander wouldn't hold a momentary burst of cultural enthusiasm against me, I stepped in yet again. “I've got family in England, they're not all bad.”

“Oh I have nothing against English _people_ ,” said Cumhur, “brilliant place, and all, but the ego from their administration is out to _here_.”

Despite the Harriers' grandeur, I got the impression that us summer league participants were not in a place to criticize anyone else's ego. This was confirmed very shortly thereafter when Specht arrived, blowing her whistle, and informed us that for the first quarter-hour of every practice, we would be running laps and, in the Chasers' case, throwing balls around, without magic.

I was jealous of Sigi and the others as they played catch at increasingly longer distances, but I felt I handled myself presentably—at least I was quick on my feet. More often than not, I spent my usual workdays catering to tourists magical and Muggle alike. At first in desk jobs, checking people in and running security (this was much easier and faster in the magical world). Later, when both sets of authorities had begun to ask too many questions, I'd gone independent, selling everything from water bottles to vampire souvenirs. Sometimes I even got to unobtrusively top off drinks for unsuspecting Muggle clients or repair toilets with a wandwave.

I mentioned this in passing to Sigi, who was attempting to make small talk. He seemed as attentive as could be expected, nodding along while we all kept our heads down and ran. But then he was breaking off to warm his arms up, and I was left to continue the conversation...with Cumhur.

“So did you ever work in England, then?” he asked.

Already starting to regret this, but suspecting that dishonesty was not going to get me very far, I shrugged. “Yeah, a bit. Worked at the Quidditch Museum in London one winter, they've got a lot of cool—”

“Not dragging suckers up to the stadium moors, I hope? Nothing to see there on off days, it's not worth it at all.”

“Of course not. I don't do it here, either.”

Nonplussed, Cumhur would have kept going had it not been for Specht's intervention. She explained that even though the first team was off, she still had lots of commitments travelling with them and playing scrimmages. Like a normal team in competition, we'd be led by our captain. In this case, Sigi.

“The setup is really a tremendous improvement over Muggle sport,” Cumhur informed me, “some of the managers who try to micromanage the teams turn out really corrupt—”

I ignored him, glancing over at Sigi. He seemed downcast, kicking at the ground as he mounted his Nimbus Twenty-One Hundred. But clearly, he knew his stuff; he started barking out instructions, and pretty soon, Ortrun and I were hitting Bludgers back and forth.

Zooming between us came Seeker Rosalie Gruenberg, who I recognized as the blue-robed witch who'd flown so well in the tryouts. I jerked sideways to avoid her. Apparently we were too cheap, or distrusted, enough to be granted access to actual Snitches, so she was doing her own thing, trying to intercept the Quaffle. She batted at it with her left hand, braking into a swerve with only her legs to guide the broom.

“Show-off,” muttered Cumhur, as he swooped down and tossed the Quaffle back to a waiting Sigi. “Next time try with your other arm.”

“Brandt...” Sigi began cautiously.

“Can't be done, sorry,” Rosalie half-shrugged, “unfortunate run-in with an Erkling.” I must have gawked at her while trying not to _look_ at her, because she went on, “These things happen.”

Cumhur blinked. “Far be it from me to dissuade you, but may I ask what possessed you to pursue a career in the top flight?”

Part of me wanted to stay put, to hear her try to put it all into words, but staying put was not what Quidditch practice was made for. Knocking another Bludger just past Cumhur, I surged onward.

In some sense, we settled into a routine after that, meeting every few days between the work schedules of those who had more steady employment. In another, nothing was routine. Sigi came prepared with very inconsistent tactics every time. One day he'd tell Ortrun to train on her own to gain strength, the next he'd roll his eyes at me for not flying closer in tandem with her. I didn't mind, recognizing I had a lot to learn about being a Beater, but Cumhur was a little more irritated. While he didn't mind being told how to play his position by a Chaser, per se, some of Sigi's stratagems didn't impress.

“And you look over your shoulder when you're approaching the goalposts, too,” said Cumhur. “Any competent defense will have already learned how to deal with the Hawkshead formation.”

“Do you want to take over?” said Sigi, who looked about ready to hurl the clipboard at someone.

“Don't have time to do your job,” Cumhur yawned.

Rosalie and Ortrun worked part-time in a magical bookstore and greenhouse respectively. Cumhur had only just left Durmstrang, but had an impressive appreciation of Muggle culture. Or so it seemed—he'd show up whistling a song nobody recognized, then cite the band name to Sigi's impressed stares. If he had made it all up, I don't think we'd ever have caught on.

Sometimes we'd hang out in Muggle Heidelberg after practice. More and more, I felt drawn to places where I wouldn't have any reason to pull a wand out. Cumhur held a lot of beer, and occasionally got into arguments over football with strangers. That was usually my cue to exit before someone would ask me my opinion, pacing the streets and fighting the urge to walk backwards and enter tour-guide mode.

One evening I was hoping to walk back to a wizarding store to catch the Floo, but I'd realized I had left it kind of late. “Got to Apparate back,” I said, “meeting a friend.”

“Oh-ho?” Cumhur smirked.

“Well, family friend. Pen friend. Sort of.”

He laughed. “Go have fun.”

I was so busy being relieved he didn't push me to explain more—knowing him, he would have used her Hogwarts experience as a segue to the unbalanced extracurricular schedules of British student-athletes—that I was hardly relieved that I'd Apparated without Splinching myself. Lily was running a few minutes late anyway, having gotten turned around.

“I know a couple tour guides who could help you with that,” I grinned when she finally waved over to me.

“Lorcan!” She pulled me into a hug. “I thought you were playing Quidditch now!”

“Explains the big ol' muscles,” I teased. “And—yeah. Sort of.”

“That's—that's great. I...good luck.”

“Only temporarily, on the reserves,” I qualified.

“Oh yeah, of course! I read your owl, it was so funny...”

“It's not mine.”

“What's not mine?”

“The funny-looking owl, I rented him, a bit prissy but Dad swears by them for longer flights.”

“Oh, I meant the letter—never mind—how've you been?”

“Okay,” I shrugged.

“That—that's brilliant!”

“How's life? How's the family?”

Lily laughed. “Do you want the short version or the long one?”

“The long one? I think.”

“ _Well_ , I've been trying to research a lot of genealogy, mostly for the lark of it, but it pays well, and wouldn't you believe it, my cousin Dan and his husband David—er, on the Evans side—are both quite into it too. So that's been brilliant, we haven't found any witches or wizards in that line but as far as the Weasleys go—”

“I'll take the short version, thanks.”

“James is doing something or other at St. Mungo's, Albus and Rebecca had a row but she's fine, and Dad thinks that Dan and I are nutters, as usual.”

I laughed. “And the others?”

“That'd make it the long version, wouldn't it. Except whatever Rose is doing is probably classified, so I'll keep that brief.”

“Much obliged.”

Lily didn't protest when I led her to a Muggle ice cream shop, and we passed the afternoon gossiping as I rushed through my cone and she half-heartedly complained of brain freeze. “Next time get a smaller one,” I told her.

“This is actually really good,” she conceded, toying with a charm bracelet that had been my mother's. “So can you eat whatever, for training?”

“Sure. If anything I need to put on weight, I'm trying to be a Beater—but there's only a couple months of this, really, I don't want to mess with my system too much until I hear back from Specht.”

“Specht?”

“The manager.”

“Oh. I wanted to be Seeker, when I was at Hogwarts...”

“Because you were little?”

“Because I wanted to score all of the points like my dad, don't be daft!”

“I'll try.”

“If—well, when you make the team, you have to come to England every once in a while, all right? Mum and Dad want to see you. And Lysander, of course.”

“I'm not his chaperone,” I laughed, “but once we qualify for the European Cup or whatnot, I'm sure I'll be right over.”

“Brilliant. They're...on the Floo.”

“Really? Shocking. Don't have tighter security to keep the riffraff out?”

“You're not riffraff, come on!”

“All right, all right. Do you want to get coffee or something?”

“I might drop by and see Lysander, I don't like making change for...uh...” She dropped her voice. “Foreign? Currency.”

“Okay. Take care.”

“You too. Owl us any time.” We hugged, but she wasn't ready to pull away. “Lorcan?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“About this whole Quidditch business—is it because of your parents?”

“What? How? No.”

“Like, you never sat there thinking, 'my mum's a war hero, my dad comes from this long line of researchers,' you don't want to be overshadowed?”

“No! Quidditch has nothing to do with any of that.”

“They didn't try to...downplay it all the time, so you could have some kind of normal childhood?”

“Normal childhood? Lily, we moved around all the time, studying here, camping there—we'd spend weeks somewhere where nobody had heard of us, there was nothing to downplay!”

“All right. As long as you're—all right.”

“This is what I want to do, just for me,” I said. “But yeah, keep in touch.”

* * *

_Dear Lysander,_

_Believe it or not, Rosalie is fairly confident that she met Father once. Long ago, after she was attacked by the Erkling, the wizarding authorities called in an expert magizoologist to make sure it was quarantined. She hadn't remembered the name off the top of her head, but looking back, she's probably right._

_Some might be moved to ask what the odds are of such a thing, but I've never cared much for Arithmancy. After all, the wizarding world is not that small, and we'd probably have been at school around the same time had we gone that way. For most people, meeting more than once is not an astonishing coincidence._

_It's what happens after the improbable events, I suppose, that are extraordinary in their routineness. Not that she survived an Erkling attack, but that her signature with her remaining hand is as illegible as any other would-be athlete's. If she makes the team it will not be her catches that are uncommon, but her falls—only because she's a Seeker, mind you, and is expected to feint..._

“What was that?” Sigi irritably demanded as Rosalie pulled out of a dive.

“Feinting,” she grinned, steadying herself.

“Feinting? Who above earth are you trying to deke? Vogelsong? Scamander over there? _Me_?”

“It would have worked in a real game.”

“A real game is exactly what you're not getting into, now go find that Transfigured ball before I have to summon it.”

“Is that even legal?” Ortrun asked, sending a Bludger at Rosalie, who easily flew around it.

“Sure it's legal,” said Sigi, “get moving.”

Rosalie didn't need to be told twice, gamely taking off in search of a tennis ball that Sigi had fused thin wings onto. They kept sinking, and Rosalie plunged after it, coming up with it and tossing it underhand at whoever was in sight. Ortrun took a whack at it with her Beater's bat, inadvertently sending it spiraling towards the goalposts. “Sorry!” she yelled.

“No problem,” said Rosalie. “Nice spin!”

I'd never seen Rosalie frown. That didn't mean she was always pleased with herself—far from it. When she missed a catch or even saw us underwhelming, she would sulk, and shift into an odd pose on the broom—scooting high up the handle and clenching the top as if into her fist. I suppose looking down on the Chasers' faltering passes was, in a literal sense, very easy, but crossing arms in disgust wholly impossible, so she split the difference as she combed the sky for the hint of any modified Muggle balls.

“Don't you want to requisition real Snitches?” I finally asked.

“I don't need to.” She tossed her ponytail in lieu of shrugging.

That was a lot of confidence. “Can I, er, ask you a rather blunt question?”

She gave a half-glance towards her empty sleeve, then back at me. “Oh, go on then.”

“Why do you think you didn't make the team? Outright, that is.”

“I...er, what?” She was taken aback, but smiling broadly too, clearly unused to that being the first topic of private conversation.

“You fly so well. I was watching, you're brilliant on a broom. If you don't think you need to work on your Seeker form...what else is left?” It wasn't flattery—she really was good. But I didn't want to own up to it. Not because I couldn't stand it going to her head, but part of me was afraid. If she hadn't made the first team, what chance did any of us have?

“Oh. Well, that...I suppose I'm not great at aggressive flying. Alongside others, I mean.”

“Others? You're a Seeker, aren't you supposed to do your own thing?”

Rosalie laughed. “That's the idea, yes. But I should have a big enough field of view wherever I can. All things being equal, I'd just as soon get in my opponents' way, force them to reroute.”

Rather than confess my limited knowledge of professional Seeking tactics, I merely said, “Well, good luck. Is there any way we can make practice run better?”

“If you want to knock one of those Bludgers at Sigi and knock him out, I think he might draw up better plays,” she said, and rolled her eyes once she saw I hadn't immediately laughed. “Not worth the risk, though.”

One day Specht dropped in to inform us that there would be press coming at the end of the week to talk to us. Rosalie didn't seem to react, but when Specht clarified that it would be _wireless_ interviewers, her eyes lit up. She'd worked up a sweat by the time I'd stowed away my bat for the afternoon and the tall, excitable reporter showed up. “We're here at the Heidelberg Harriers—” Every time someone said it, it still gave me an invisible thrill. “—training camp with the batch of would-be Quidditch pros hoping to make their way into the top flight. And chief among this motley crew stands the reserve captain, Sigi Pfeffer. Sigi?”

“Er...that is...I'm...we're all working very hard around here,” Sigi began. Clearly he wasn't loud enough; the interviewer magically cranked up his volume. The feedback gave a screech, and Ortrun, startled, almost fell off her broom, ignoring the Bludger she had been trying to track down. Rolling his eyes, Cumhur ducked to avoid it, then landed.

Interviewing Sigi appeared to be like getting blood from an alchemist's stone; possible, but requiring magic of dubious legality to facilitate. In a sulk, Sigi finally trudged off after a Quaffle, and at last, the wireless broadcaster rounded on Rosalie instead. “And putting in another honorable performance, Rosalie Gruenberg! She's a speedy little thing in the air—” Behind him, the Bludger Ortrun had abandoned, coming forward fast. “—and while she's got no hope to make the first team with just one arm, truly an inspiration to any young witch or wizard on their first broom.”

Everything happened at once. “Oh, for goodness' _sake_ ,” Rosalie was hissing, and the Bludger was about to hit the interviewer, and given how indignant she'd become I almost thought he deserved it, but part of me was craving to do _something_ more, and I whipped out my wand, and began speaking a halting charm that would surely be a foul had I attempted it in a game, and the wand was as foreign in my hand as any weapon whose loyalty I had not won would be, and a bolt of purple light that I hadn't meant to cast lurched forward as I doubled over in pain, my arm shaking uncontrollably. I wanted to vomit, but could only manage empty retching.

“Lorcan!” Time must have jerked past, because there was Rosalie, her wand at the ready while the Bludger hung limply in midair. Had she already stilled it? “You're all right, you're all right, ssh...”

Eventually I must have stopped gagging, whether due to a supportive arm around the shoulder or a competitive thump on the back (with Rosalie they were effectively indistinguishable, not because of her anatomy, but her interactions could border on the terse), because I looked up to hear the _crack_ that was Sigi Apparating away rather than deal with a second round of interviews. For a would-be superstar, he certainly had the “keeping the press in place” act down pat.

“I'll go chase down Specht, then,” the interviewer sighed, and vanished moments later.

“Are you all right?” Cumhur asked.

“Well, not particularly,” I said.

“Is there anything—”

“I'm fine,” I cut him off, “I just want to go home, rest up away from the paparazzi.”

“In that case, thank you,” Rosalie finally volunteered.

“I—what?” I stammered.

“For creating a diversion? Saving me from that?”

“Just take credit,” Cumhur yawned, “even when the world doesn't revolve around her, it revolves around her. I think that's magical astronomy or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don't let them get to you.”

“I won't,” she said. “Only a couple months of this, right? Before tryouts, I mean.”

 _There could be_ years _of this_ , I wanted to say, but just smiled. “Yeah. You have time.”

While I tried to avoid spellcasting at practice again, at home I watched the skies for an owl that would come swooping in, tumbling out of the air and hitting its head against my window in exhaustion. “Easy,” I said, letting it in and yanking away the letter as the owl pecked at me.

It turned up its nose at the leftover sandwich I had been storing, which was impressive since I didn't think it had the energy for many more carefree turns, but eagerly gulped down some water I poured into a bowl. Finally, I could tear open the letter, a reply to the missive I'd scribbled recently via Lily. Grinning, I dashed off a reply, and then set about arranging a Portkey.

The bureaucrat who issued it was one of the most perfunctory I'd ever seen. No expression, barely grunting, just glancing up at the clock a couple times and handing it over to me. If she'd been the victim of a muting jinx I don't think I'd have been able to tell the difference. As I felt the familiar jerk under my navel, I almost wanted to smile as the office faded around me; not that the trip itself was so banal, but that I could arrange it without any comment. When moving between countries, Mother would finagle our timing just _so_ so we didn't arrive anywhere at a time disruptive to the local thaumatorhythms, while Father continually fretted that Lysander or I would touch something before the allotted time. But explain my itinerary, and these officials didn't bat an eye. Who needed Apparition anyway?

Apparently, BIQL referee Roxanne Weasley did, because she arrived a few minutes late, muttering rapid-fire apologies. “Joey's at St. Mungo's and Cleo's staying with Martin, Fred had a gig and—”

“It's all right,” I held up a hand for a word in edgewise, “don't worry about it. I really appreciate you making time for me.”

“Well _making_ time I think would contradict...ah...someone's law to messing around with time travel.”

Now _that_ was another can of flobberworms I didn't want to get involved in. “Let's get to it, then.”

“Right. Can I see your broom, before you climb on?”

I handed it over. “A Cleansweep Twenty! This is nice. Not very much in the way of bells and whistles, I suppose, but you'll want that tight turning radius to avoid infringing on your opponents or fouling them.”

“I'd never foul anyone!” I half-protested, “I play fair.”

“Beaters, that's what they always say.” She took out her wand and tapped at the handle.

“What's that?”

“Just checking for anomalous spellwork...not that I think you _would_ , but...no, it should be fine.”

“Brilliant, can I have it back then?”

“Yes, but don't take off yet—climb aboard and let me watch your posture.”

“ _Posture_?” I rolled my eyes.

“You didn't go to an organized school, did you? The Hogwarts refs are worse.”

Reluctantly, I held my pose, itching to burst from the ground, but Roxanne squinted skeptically at me. “You'll want to move further back, once you take off. Otherwise it strains your back muscles.”

“I'm not really worried about my back muscles.”

“It's better form.”

I scooted back, and it felt as awkward as expected. Roxanne, curse her, just gave a satisfied nod. “Up you get, then. I'd ask you to do laps but you're probably sick of them, so try and climb vertically as fast as possible a couple times.”

I liked her style, and duly took off, climbing in a tight spiral. It was tough not to drift towards one end of the field, and concentrating on that made me ignore the weird posture. Roxanne, however, whistled at me only moments later (I wasn't sure if she had conjured one up or if it was just a devoted-ref thing to have it on her all the time). “All right, forget that, back to however you were holding the thing.”

“What? I'm fine!”

“No you're not, you're distracted.”

“I'm not distracted!” She rolled her eyes and I realized I'd have been too scared to talk to Specht like that. “Okay, let me land and start over.”

“Fine,” she said, “but you're doing laps.”

I did two laps around the field, three more the other way, and then, mercifully, Roxanne whistled me back down to start hitting at engorged tennis balls. “Shouldn't I be aiming at something?”

“Don't bother yet, I'll get a better sense of your form that way. One step at a time.”

Dubiously, I rattled off a few in every direction. After Summoning them back (I'd just politely asked her to do that, and she didn't protest—presumably she'd pushed herself for enough good grades in some long-ago Charms class that she was proud to review the fundamentals), she had me turn and hit more from weird angles. I was getting sore, but no more than a usual practice entailed.

Only then did she mount her Firebolt Supreme and invite me to hit at her, as many as I could. Despite only giving her a brief head start, I missed every one the first time around. She buckled and zigzagged at odd angles, then plunged into a dive to summon back the balls so I could try again. Telling myself I'd be better at tracking down an enchanted Bludger, my instincts moving alongside it, rather than the balls that followed a slow, uninspired trajectory, I nevertheless fumbled the next few. The only time I clipped her bristles was when she was retrieving a couple more with her wand.

Nevertheless, she had a thin smile as we returned to the ground, that disappeared as she began rattling off advice at top speed. “So your aim is pretty accurate, you don't really hook to one side which can be a weakness, but you need a lot more power in your shots—and of course, you shouldn't aim where I _am_ , you want to aim where I'm _going_ to be. As far as flight path, you tend to drift a little to your right, and shift your body weight to make up—this won't hurt you immediately but it's going to be exhausting over a long game, so try to stay aligned. Don't ever use the pitch boundaries to keep you on-track, they're always going to curve and lead you astray. Your posture—again, it's not spectacular, but I think any advice I can give you'll overcompensate so just do what comes naturally. What you—”

“Want to summon a quill?” I laughed. “I'm going to need to write all this down!”

Sheepishly, Roxanne produced some Muggle paper and a pencil, and I jotted down the highlights before passing it off to her to add to. She had a tight script, efficient but transparent.

“Thank you _so_ much,” I said, “if there's anyone else in Britain I should talk to, I could—I dunno—take lessons or something...”

“I think you're coming along well, for the experience you have. Obviously at this level it's all a bit...”

“Difficult?”

“That too. Not _arbitrary_ , of course...” (Thank goodness, I privately reflected, were a BIQL official to admit a hint of capriciousness Cumhur would smell it all the way from Heidelberg) “but a little outmoded. Obviously it's a lot better than when my uncles were young, but it's a big old institution, you know.”

Any bureaucracy daring enough to employ Roxanne Weasley was already risking droves of energy unleashed within its walls on a regular basis, so I supposed it couldn't be too outmoded. “One step at a time. I really do think I'm coming along, and with this advice, I know I can be even better.”

She nodded. “Brilliant, good luck!”

“Same to you. Er, whatever it is...refs don't need any...”

A shrug. “Joey could use some, if it's going spare. Take care!”

I nodded, tucking the note deep within my robes, and started to dig for the return Portkey.

* * *

_Dear Lysander,_

_I suppose some of us fancy the potential of stardom, and wonder idly what it will do to us—or our would-be teammates. Would Cumhur be disillusioned by the long travel schedules of the European Cup? Could Sigi come into his own in front of the press?_

_But all these speculations rest on one article of faith; that nothing could shake Ortrun's routine, which seems impervious to all distractions Muggle or wizardly alike. No fame could assure her she has it made; no disappointment could suggest that a change of pattern might be in order. She is fastidious to a fault—and perhaps inured to pain, to another..._

In retrospect it might be impressive, how long it took for me to see Ortrun scratching an itch. It wasn't like she was short of bruises. Every couple weeks she'd come wandering in with a vague discoloration. When anyone noticed it, she'd give a confused shrug. “Must've bumped into something.”

And we believed her. She was certainly quick with a wand when she wanted to be, and anyone who wanted to mess with a Beater in training would find themselves at the wrong end of it. More to the point, she was caught up in her head often enough to wander into the men's locker room the first time we practiced at a pitch set up for real competition. Cumhur had unceremoniously thrown her out.

So the clumsy bumps were maybe not the athleticism we were hoping for in our upcoming talent, but it wasn't like I had grounds to protest. While she attracted her share of Bludgers, she shrugged everything off. Either she'd been numbed by way too many pain potions, or more likely, just didn't care. I came to this assessment by her unfailingly repetitive orders when we all went out for dinner: green tea, nothing stronger or weaker. She'd probably hate the taste of medicine.

But even Ortrun cracked under her weakness, and we got a taste of what fazed her one hot afternoon when practice was winding down. It had been raining the day before, and the air was still humid. A large fly drifted past, batted out of the way by a Quaffle, and alighted on Ortrun's broom. She waved at it, and it buzzed off for a moment, only to reemerge seconds later on her robe. A twitch of her sleeve, and it temporarily took its leave, returning on her hand. She dove low to get out of the way, and it was at that point that Sigi finally intervened. “Ortrun! What are you doing?”

“There's a bug,” she explained.

“A bug?” he repeated. “Of course. You are a witch. On a broom. In the air. Things will fly past you.”

“Oh yeah. Yeah!” Ortrun brightened. “Okay.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah yeah.”

A few minutes of tranquility followed, but all too soon, the offending bug showed up again. This time, Ortrun had come prepared. Gripping her broom close to her, her bat dangling beneath, she had her wand out, and blasted the insect into pieces, before stowing it and continuing on her flight path.

My parents hadn't raised me to let this wanton paranoia pass by without flinching—even if it was just a mundane creature, _someone_ probably found it fascinating. But while I tried to keep my mind on the Bludgers Ortrun was neglecting, Sigi whistled in disgust, though with far more of a whimper than Roxanne's commanding tone. “Vogelsong! What are you doing!”

“Just taking care of my own business,” Ortrun called back. “Nothing for you lot to worry about, carry on!”

“You are not allowed to whip out your wand in the middle of play to—curse a bug!”

“Says who?”

“Says me, first off, and—”

“Is it one of the fouls?”

“I—what?”

“There's about six hundred I haven't read, but I'm not using my wand upon the players, the ref, the fans, the equipment. So this should be fine, right?”

“It's...overkill.”

“Well I didn't use a killing curse or anything, that'd be a bit illegal, but I'm allowed to cast in self-defense, aren't I?”

“It's like,” Cumhur chimed in, “using a...sledgehammer to kill a fly. As it were.”

Sigi blinked. “What's a sledgehammer?”

Sure enough, the next week it rained again, bringing more insects and inciting Sigi to end practice early. Most people Apparated away, but I was waiting for the Portkey that was set for the top of the hour. So as I was waiting, I saw Ortrun scratch her right arm...then her left.

“What happened?” Rosalie asked.

“Mosquito bite,” sulked Ortrun.

“...where?”

“Here,” she said, scratching the right. Then the left.

“What happened to your other arm?”

“Nothing. I don't think.”

“Then why are you scratching it?”

“Cause...once I scratch one side I have to scratch another. Or it...prickles, it needs to be...all symmetric-like.”

“Are you mental?”

“I don't think so, not exactly...”

“Where do you think _I'd_ be if I was as crazy as you? Symmetric, my—”

“I dunno, where do you live? Berlin?”

Rosalie was momentarily dumbstruck, and in the time it took her to realize how literal Ortrun was being I finally charged in. “Ortrun! Don't you have anywhere else you can be? Don't want to—irritate that bite any further.”

She gave me a glare before Apparating away.

Rosalie sighed. “I know what you're going to say, I shouldn't let her get to me—”

“I wasn't gonna say anything!” I protested. “I'm not the captain, I'm not the coach.”

A wary nod. “I breathed Quidditch growing up—just on the wireless, you know? Everyone was nameless, statistics only. Beaters less than that, there was nothing to count.”

“She loves history too. For all we know, she might have been the same.”

“Ugh. Well, thanks anyway. See you around.”

I had dinner at a wizarding pub with Lysander and Elsa that night. We must have talked—Elsa about the latest books she'd been reading with her Muggle friends and how she had to nod along at the cultural references she missed, Lysander about the disasters that had been averted during the extremely short-lived Bring Your Pets To Work Day. By then I had already considered the bug scratches unremarkable—perhaps something to journal about later, but what would they care? I wanted to talk about flying, about the adjustments of the Cleansweep under my fingers. I'd taken Roxanne's advice to heart, I confidently informed them, and corrected for the drift...

I don't think any of us listened well. We were all watching each other, Elsa looking on at Lysander in delight and at me with quiet curiosity (perhaps she had heard about the glories of Heidelberg a dozen or two fewer times). I looked at Lysander with earnest command of the day's events, and at Elsa with unhurried curiosity. As for Lysander, he regarded Elsa with pleasant familiarity, and me with something I couldn't name, like concern.

But the meal was good even if we had nothing to say, and we finished squabbling over who'd handle the tab in less than three minutes, which was one of the better times (Lysander won). “You go on ahead,” I waved, “it's a clear night, I want to fly back.”

“You fly just to get around?” Elsa gawked. “You really are...ah...dedicated.”

“We'll see if it works,” I shrugged. “Go on, I should Disillusion myself in the men's room.”

“Speaking of which, I should go too,” said Lysander, shooting Elsa an uncharacteristically flustered glance.

The bathroom was silent, and Lysander looked around briefly before accosting me. “Look, I don't want to go putting words in Elsa's mouth or anything, but you know you can cast in front of her, yeah? She's...cool.”

“I know, I know. I just don't want to be an issue.”

“You're not an _issue_ , Lorcan—”

“I get it. And I'm casting right now, here, watch me! Or don't.” I repeated the familiar incantation, and a moment later I was the same fetching shade of pink as the stall behind me.

“Look, I've read...studies and all, and the rate at which you cast spells doesn't _matter_. If it fails, it fails—we're all wizards here, we're hard to shock.”

“Like they've found enough people to count.”

“Oh curse the sample size, you—you remember Mother, nothing stopped _her_ from casting whatever charms she wanted.”

“Bully for Mother, I'm not her.”

“I don't want you to lock yourself away from—from our world, from magic, from everything—ow!”

That had been me, hitting him in the knee with my unseen Cleansweep. “I'm not away from _anything_ when I'm flying, Lysander, it's—amazing. I'd practice anywhere, any time...”

“All right,” he grinned, “I'd hug you, or something, but you're kind of invisible right now.”

I clapped him on the back. “Over here!”

He turned around, then kept spinning as if expecting me to Apparate across the room and catch him by surprise, but I was already making my way to the door.

* * *

_Dear Lysander,_

_I can't tell how many times I've signed my full name without a second thought. Fewer, certainly, than the times I've just written “Lorcan” (how many of these have I sent you, just this season?), but time and time again, when I sign “Scamander,” nobody bats an eye, least of all me._

_Even when people have heard of us, it's usually in back in the UK, and it's more often in reference to Newt than Father. Perhaps if we'd inherited Mother's name it would be different, but even there people don't have to blurt out “oh, of course you'd be related to someone I've heard of from generations ago,” since so many wizarding families are like that._

_Maybe Cumhur is right and they're just all too stuck in their ways. Or maybe they've learned a thing or two about blinking back reactions. Maybe, we could stand to learn from them over here..._

Only one week remained until tryouts. For most of us, the urgency was at fever pitch. We were ready to make our cases, to show off everything we'd learned in the past few months. Even though it was tempered by the knowledge that very few spots were realistically likely to open up in the first team, there was still that dizzying hope that Specht couldn't deny us once she saw what we were capable of.

For Sigi, there was even more at stake. Just days before, we'd learned that first-team Chaser Dietmar Regenbogen had accidentally hexed himself in a sensitive location and wouldn't be able to fly for a month. A new Chaser was a necessity.

Rosalie, Cumhur, and even (once she'd completed adjusting all her lucky bracelets) Ortrun seemed genuinely happy for Sigi's new opportunity, wishing him good luck, and I tried to do the same while wishing Specht hadn't been so determined to make me into a Beater. But he only bristled at the sentiment. “It's not like I cursed him or anything.”

“Of course not!” I said. “We're just...glad you have the chance.”

“I didn't do it,” he repeated, through clenched teeth.

And then we were off. This time, Specht had us start with the specific, positional demonstrations—we were much fewer than we'd been at the open tryouts, so she had a lot more time to watch us one-on-one. I hunted down modified Bludgers, bent and whirled at their oncoming streaks, and on cue, flew to break up Chaser flight patterns. I assumed these were the same kinds of tasks people trying out for Beater had done the first time around, maybe in a different order, but couldn't be sure. All I knew was that I still felt hopeful, in control.

Only at the end did we reconvene for more standard drills; testing agility as we maneuvered in every direction, control as we hung upside-down without moving, and of course, everything drained our stamina. Finally came the speed laps, back and forth across the pitch.

Rosalie took an early lead, but Cumhur and I were not far behind. Ortrun was flagging, and Sigi not quite keeping pace. Until the last few times back and forth, when suddenly, he pushed forward with a new burst of speed. At the end of the pitch he turned recklessly, and we swerved to veer away from him, but he wouldn't be deterred and ploughed faster and faster ahead. Across the pitch, as we ached with our last reserves of strength, Sigi flew and flew, head bent downwards, not seeing any obstacles ahead. He continued forward, and there, at the end of the pitch, flew straight into the goalpost.

For the first time in weeks I felt almost ashamed of not wanting to spellcast, but I wouldn't have been much use. Within moments, Specht had flown over and was already rifling off spell after spell. He'd fallen to the ground after that, and was very slowly stumbling to his feet.

Cumhur and I had frozen up, while Ortrun and Rosalie continued on their laps. After muttering something to Sigi, Specht whistled them down. “I've seen enough. Come back on Thursday and we'll discuss.”

Then they vanished in what I could only assume was her Side-Alonging him to the hospital. I hid a grim smile as I landed; we'd come _so_ close to finishing the training camp without someone being medically evacuated, but despite my nauseous near-miss, it hadn't been me. I'd done my best; the rest was in the boardroom's hands.

“Poor guy,” said Rosalie.

“Do you think he'll be all right?” Ortrun nervously asked, heading for the locker room.

“He'll be fine,” said Cumhur. “Well, better if he stays away from the pitch and stops wasting his time.”

“Waste of a captaincy, if you ask me,” Rosalie said.

“He wasn't bad! He knew his stuff, he was a fair pick.”

“Even you'd have been better.”

“It's Heidelberg,” Cumhur shrugged, “We do things the right way.”

“It's the would-bes' training camp,” Rosalie amended, “no one really cares.”

“He did seem so unhappy, so often,” I reflected. “Why do you think Specht chose him?”

“He's a Chaser—no offense,” Cumhur said, at the same moment Rosalie said “Well he's Sigi _Pfeffer_ , isn't he?”

“What?” I blurted.

Cumhur reacted first. “Generally old-school coaches want a Chaser to lead the team, someone who's used to working with several others and reacting to them, not off doing their own thing. There are exceptions, of course, but the party line is that no one wants egos to get in the way. And—I mean, you're talented, but I don't think that was really the place for you.”

“I never said I wanted to be _captain_ ,” I protested.

But Rosalie was rolling her eyes. “You...well, maybe you don't. What do you know about the 2014 World Cup?”

“2014?” I blinked, remembering Mother helping us review the extended Weasley clan in detailed photographs. “I was a couple months old at the time, I don't remember anything. My parents attended, though.”

“Well, it was the same for Sigi. Only, his father was _Thorsten_ Pfeffer.”

“That's nice. Er...who?”

“Our Seeker,” said Cumhur. “Tried a Wronski Feint in the first round, almost died. We went out to cursed _Wales_.”

“So that's what inspired Sigi to get into Quidditch? Redeem his father's legacy?”

“I dunno,” said Rosalie. “Does he look inspired to you?”

“For being kind of rubbish in the end, Thorsten was—still is—plenty rich,” Cumhur said. “I don't think Sigi has to be here, doing any of this, if he didn't want to.”

“He clearly _doesn't_ want to,” I said, “not the captaincy, anyway.”

“Maybe he's been looking for a way out, this whole time,” Rosalie said. “I don't know. It just feels like a waste.”

I was nervous enough thinking up ways I could have done better, it never did occur to me to wonder what would have happened to my own training if we'd had another captain. Like it or not, Sigi _did_ know his stuff, and for someone as obviously out-of-the-modern-Quidditch-loop as I was, I don't think I could have asked for a better introduction to the fundamentals, at least for my own sake. What could have become of Sigi, were it not for us? Even that speculation was too far afield, in the end; we had enough on our plates.

“Right,” Cumhur declared, “see you lot Thursday, agreed? Who wants to go out for drinks, win or lose?”

“Errrr, no thanks,” stammered a reemerging Ortrun, “I can't stand the taste of beer, it's all—oh never mind.”

* * *

I had promised myself I wouldn't live a life in countdowns, fretting away the days and hours until Thursday or any deadline in the future. Yet knowing the decision was so close, the prospect of living on a calendar, having set matches and practices and things to look forward to week in and week out became strangely alluring. Work and practice had both had their own regiments, but looking forward to playing in front of a crowd felt like a chance to count up, rather than down.

We gathered at the office, and I found myself wishing Cumhur had offered to get us drinks first, just to settle our nerves. Not that there was any chance of that happening with Ortrun. She walked into Specht's room shivering and avoiding eye contact, and exited ten minutes later, much the same way. Rosalie, the most experienced in catching recalcitrant objects, finally caught Ortrun's eye. Ortrun gave a tiny shake of the head and Disapparated. It was, I supposed, better than Sigi, who hadn't shown up at all.

Rosalie took longer behind the door—signing documents, maybe? Or calling in an agent? She said nothing either once she'd come back, but was hiding a smile. “Knew you had it in you!” I mouthed. And then Specht was at the threshold. “Scamander?” she called. Eyes wide, I followed.

From her seat behind the desk, Specht magicked the door shut. It felt a frivolous use of her wand, but what business was it of mine? I expected there to be parchments in front of her—notes on my performance, if not an immediate contract to sign—but the desk was blank save a few stray ticket stubs.

“It's good to see you,” she said, and I stammered some variant on “you too.”

“Scamander,” she went on, “there were some of us who were...hesitant about signing a player with your condition.” I gulped, but she went on, “You should be proud to know that nobody is concerned about your ability to work professionally. Everyone we've talked to has been impressed by your work ethic as well as your fitness, and you've been a pleasure to watch around camp.”

I tensed on the edge of my chair and thought _please, keep going_ (to Specht) and _try not to vomit and ruin the moment_ (to myself).

“We appreciated your willingness to retrain in a new position, and it seems that the specificities of your assignments are not holding you back. But your athleticism leaves—much to be desired. Unfortunately, all health issues notwithstanding, we cannot recommend you continue in professional Quidditch.”

 _What else_? I demanded silently. There had to be something.

“Thank you for your interest,” she recited. “It's been a pleasure to work with you.”

“I can't—I didn't—there's nothing—” I blurted.

Specht looked more confused than anything, as if I was some rare specimen who'd exhibited the heretofore unknown behavior of protesting. I wasn't _athletic_ enough? That was _it_? “Are you...” she trailed off.

No, I wasn't going to be all right, but that was hardly her fault. “I—of course. Thank you,” I muttered, pacing out the door as she waved Cumhur in.

It was the sight of Rosalie's frame that made me stiffen up, at least for the short term—even if she wouldn't let it on, she had better things to worry about than my prospects. “Well?” I said. “I mean, we all knew you could do it.”

She blushed. “It sounds like they're selling off Hall—” (the old Seeker, even I knew) “—to get a new Chaser on loan, what with Regenbogen out. So...there was room for me.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I mean—really. You're brilliant.” She was, but I figured if I kept repeating it, I'd be able to add _and I'm not_ in my head without wincing.

It didn't work.

“Thanks,” she said, and this time she was flush with excitement.

We had all been pulled between two goalposts, for better and for worse. We wanted to rise above, to be distinguished and recognized and set apart. And at the same time we wanted to blend in, to leave behind all that had made us so driven to succeed—injuries and illnesses, ideology and inner turmoil. I had failed not because MS-03 was in my way, but because I'd never really been any great shakes at sport.

It didn't make it any easier to take. And it wouldn't mean Rosalie was through with annoying questions or patronizing misinterpretations, by any stretch. She'd only just begun. But, too, she'd arrived.

While Ortrun and I had remained stoic after our rejections, Cumhur exited the office and seemed on the verge of tears. “It can't have been _that_ bad?” Rosalie asked.

“It was—awful, I can't—Rosalie, what am I going to _do_?”

“You're going to get cursed drunk, is what you're going to do,” I said. “But what did Specht say?”

“She—she—she said I was a g-g-good flyer,” he spluttered. “That I was inexperienced, but a—a—a natural Keeper.”

“That...sounds...” Rosalie began.

“Good,” I finished, when she was too busy looking confused to finish.

“Heidelberg already have Evren M-Martin as Keeper,” he stammered. “And she's young, she's not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Well,” said Rosalie, “there's no shame in not being as good as Martin yet, you can try out next year!”

But I shook my head, already having an idea where this was going. “Heidelberg still have your contract rights. But there's no room for you on the first team. So what did Specht do?”

“She wants to sell my contract,” Cumhur groused. “To c-cursed _Chudley_.”

* * *

“What's new?” Elsa asked.

It had been several weeks since Heidelberg. Cooler weather was setting in, and I had a new crowd of tourists, mostly Muggle, to cater to. They paced the streets in slow motion, their outlines stark against the unmoving urban backdrops. There were all kinds of novelties out there, if I just raised a wand to summon them. I'd only frozen up once, trying to Transfigure an empty water bottle into an umbrella on a rainy day, and wound up retching into a trash can while I waited for the trembling to subside, long enough to stash my wand.

Pausing between bites of a bratwurst, I answered, “I saw Ortrun today.”

“Ortrun?”

“From—training camp. I was buying herbs, and she works there now—still.”

“How's she doing?” asked Lysander.

“I don't think she recognized me.”

“Really?” Elsa pressed.

“She could get a little...distracted...easily. I'm not sure she was paying much attention.” Or had been good enough with faces for me to make an impact at all.

“Well, like we always say, it's a small world of wizards and all,” said Lysander.

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I mean, I _hope_ she didn't recognize me—that she wasn't just ignoring me.”

“Was she ever much of a conversationalist?”

“Not really. It's just...”

“Eh?” Elsa went on.

“There's a lot about it I don't—you know—miss. I don't miss the cold showers at the Moor, or setting up a Portkey every cursed time I wanted to get out in the middle of nowhere—” Lysander opened his mouth, probably to say something about how he'd have gladly Side-Alonged me or somesuch, but I rushed ahead, cutting him off. “Or the _countless_ laps, or most of the...attitudes, the way people got worked up all the time. The day-to-day work of actually being there. I'm used to cities, to people, being alone in the middle of the air chasing dangerous balls around. The whole _process_ of it all, I don't...miss most of it.”

“Well, that's all right then,” said Lysander. “Isn't it? I mean, if you get bored of the tourism lark I'm sure there'd be plenty of places that'd be glad to have you, whatever kinds of accommodations you'd need, but you don't have to...”

“But I still _failed_. And if I ever run into Rosalie or Cumhur again, I don't know what we'd say. They had what it takes, I didn't—and, you know, they're _pleasant_ enough, they'd never insult me, but they'll talk down to me. When—I wasn't good enough. I didn't earn my place, they did, and we have nothing in common really. No matter how much they pretend...”

“Why Quidditch?” Lysander asked.

“I don't know. I just—I wasn't going to win a war or discover new species, but it's not like I'd ever flunked out of anything at Durmstrang, is it? I thought I could do anything, and then when I realized hey, maybe I didn't have enough time—I wanted to _achieve_ at something. It was selfishness—childish, maybe, to want to be a big sports star, I hadn't thought it through. But to do something where I could be recognized, to say I accomplished something, in the end...”

“But these people, Rosalie, Cumhur, they're still just Quidditch jocks,” said Elsa confidently. “They have better things to do than patronize you.”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “The world _is_ pretty small.”

“Have you been to any Quidditch games since?” Lysander asked.

“No,” I admitted. I wasn't sure if I was just reacting to the fact that deep down the sport wasn't particularly interesting, or whether I couldn't bear to go back and relive my failures.

“Well, there you go then. If you do run into them, there'll be plenty of time to deal with them then. In the meantime, you do your bit and they do theirs.”

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Er, can I borrow Elsa for a moment?”

“ _Well_ then!” he smirked, and Elsa tittered, while I rolled my eyes.

“Of course you can steal me away from this lout,” she said.

“Hey now, we're twins,” said Lysander.

“Fraternal,” I sighed. “And—no, Lysander, you can't claim the tab while we're having a liaison.”

Lysander looked quite put out as Elsa followed me into a back corner. I wasn't really sure how to begin, but as I'd said, we _were_ fraternal, and Lysander had apparently inherited more of Mum's, as Lily put it, “Ravenclaw side” than I had. Sometimes a little foolhardy courage was all it took.

“I just—someone ought to tell you,” I said, “that Lysander really does care about you, whether he spells it out or not.”

“I...well that is the idea, yes,” she blushed. “I—feel the same way, and he's well aware.”

I nodded. “Sometimes I think I'm monopolizing his—expressions of sentiment. Which, I was here first, and hopefully I'm going to stick around and get talked at for a good long while. But regardless, you could never come between us, and I—hope I won't come between you.”

“Of course not, you goof,” she said. “I didn't...fall for his grandiose speechmaking.”

“Really? The long tangents about postnationalistic governance don't turn you on?”

“Oh, they turn _something_ on all right.”

“The spigot for disagreeing adoration.”

“It's in a ticklish spot,” said Elsa. “But really, it's not you, Lysander would be—taking things a bit slow no matter what, I think.”

“I know. I know his style. But I also know that with most people he'd have gotten irritated and fed up on principle, and for whatever reason, he's not going anywhere when you're around. I'd tell you not to let that slip, but...he _is_ my brother, and,” I heaved a fake sigh, “I _suppose_ you two have the right to carry on or end your relationships like reasonable and mature adults.”

“Oh, mature's stretching it a bit with him, but thanks.”

I nodded, walking back towards the table. They weren't about to hurry things along for my sake, it was clear, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. Lysander's goals and disappointments had been far from mine for a long time, but maybe, for him, this time would be different.

* * *

And that would have been the end. I went back to work and every once in a while flew there, and bit back memories, and perhaps fought off bursts of pain when Disillusioning myself twice rather than once a week. Lysander and Elsa discovered, quietly, that they could actually stand each other. Father continued to travel, and as long as Lysander wasn't telling him to come home, I knew I'd made it one day at a time, even if Lysander kept pestering me to move in so it would be more convenient. I think the Bielefeld Demiguises went top of the league, but I wasn't following.

Would have been, and almost was. Except maybe for what happened one day when Elsa and I were visiting Lysander's. It had been unseasonably hot at work, and I was ready to kick back and drink up while Lysander fussed over me and I cursed him out every once in a while. I was only half-awake when I was roused by the sound of Elsa giggling. She was reading something, under her breath.

“...she has eyes set together rather closely, as if restricting her field of vision while having the nice side effect of making her look like a very focused ornithological specimen. Perhaps to compensate for this, she wears small glasses with large, golden frames, which she must constantly toy with and tap at to keep busy. Anyone else would develop headaches from this behavior, but I suspect these are merely the sleekest and most unobtrusive update in Omnioculars, and she is secretly recording Seeker feints to play back in slow motion...”

“Who _is_ this?” she stammered, between bursts of laughter.

“Eh?” I sat up. “That's got to be Specht.”

Elsa rounded on Lysander. “You have _Liese Specht's_ scouting reports in your flat?”

“I do?” Lysander blinked.

“No, no,” I said, “it sounds like Specht is being _described_. Unless she's writing about herself.”

“Where'd you find those?”

“They were just lying around,” Elsa waved towards a small side table, “there's a whole stack of 'em...”

“Those are _mine_ , put them _back_!”

“Well of course they're yours, this is your flat.”

Lysander stomped over, took the parchment from Elsa, and began riffling through to slot it in whatever location he deemed appropriate. “And these are from Lorcan. Don't mess with them, they're in order.”

“Oh you and your orders.”

Elsa rolled her eyes, while I paced over. “You sort all my letters?”

“All—all the ones I kept,” he said. We both stared at him, and he went on, “Lorcan writes really—really funny descriptions of people. Once he started—meeting new people, at Heidelberg—I told him to write to me. I—I wanted to keep them, for—so I'd always have a way to remember how he put things.”

“But these are _hilarious_ ,” Elsa said, riffling through them again. “The players, the manager...the interviewers and the dietician, even.”

“Well, thanks,” I said.

“Put them back,” said Lysander.

“No.”

Lysander pursed his lip.

“I mean, yes, of course, but—don't you think you could get this published, or something?”

“That'd be brilliant,” Lysander exclaimed, at the same time I was saying “of course not.”

“Don't be modest,” he said, “you really are good at this.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said, “nobody would want to read it.”

“Insider's look at Quidditch training camp, with these kinds of character studies?” said Elsa. “I think it'd be pretty funny.”

“People don't want to hear about winners and losers and final scores,” I said, “people want to read about scandals and locker-room run-ins and everything being bleak and vague and hopeless. Even at my worst, I can't do that.”

“Who said that? That's not true.”

“Grandfather,” said Lysander.

“What?”

“You never really tried to be a _writer_ , did you? Not after knowing who Grandfather was, how people treated him—we're too faithful, too _childish_ for this day and age, we Lovegoods. Right?”

“There're plenty of writers out there,” I muttered, “I didn't stand a chance...”

“I'd say you wouldn't know until you try,” said Elsa, “but that's not fair, you _are_ willing to try, we've all seen you at Quidditch. You want to make an impact, you clearly _have_ talent...”

“But not at sport.”

“No,” Lysander laughed.

“I don't want to deal with it,” I said. “All the hassle, all the people to talk to. It's not worth it.”

“Then let us help you,” said Elsa. “What do you have to lose?”

“Well for starters,” I said, “there's the chance that I get stuck with some fawning cursed book jacket about my tragic young life.”

“Nah, we'll just jinx anyone who tries,” said Lysander, “I know some really good personal raincloud hexes.”

“Editors probably like those because they symbolize the gloom and doom of modernity or whatever,” I said, “gag me.”

“Glare jinxes then. You'll see.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, lifting the first of the letters off the pile. “ _Geminio_!”

Unfortunately the Doubling Charm backfired and I was left with a singe through the parchment and another through my shirt, and thoughts of collation were put aside as Elsa and Lysander started worrying about me again. But I'd been ready to make a copy, at least.

So that's where we are; owls crossing paths in the mail. Me tentatively writing to Whizz Hard Books, unsure whether my familiar name will be a blessing or curse, but hoping at least some of my descriptions stand on their own. Lysander protesting that dealing with currency exchanges is so inefficient. Elsa being excited to collect the little Knuts because look how cute and different they are. My mother's lullabies in the distance, wordless, if only for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](http://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/93706.html).


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